


getting late to give you up

by middlecyclone



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: Nobody ever becomes a ghost the easy way.





	getting late to give you up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jothowrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/gifts).



Shane sees the ghost the instant they walk in the front door.

She’s got streaky bleach-blonde hair in a high ponytail and too-wide, too-piercing blue eyes. Shane can tell she’s a ghost because of two reasons: firstly, she’s wearing low-rise flared jeans with a too-short Abercrombie polo; secondly, and perhaps more crucially, she’s semi-transparent and he can see the living room furniture through her torso.

He’s been looking at her too long, he realizes, when she looks right back and blows a nearly-invisible bubble of ghost gum.

“Oh my God,” she says, “can you like, see me?”

Shane studiously stares at the back of Ryan’s head and tries to pretend he can’t hear her. It doesn’t work.

“Oh my God,” she squeals, “you can totally see me!”

“Okay,” Ryan says, “so I think we should probably set up here for our talking heads, and then head upstairs to do the real investigation.”

The ghost gasps. “Are you guys like, ghost hunters? That’s totally sweet.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, ostensibly to Ryan but he’s staring at the ghost.

“Okay, cool,” Ryan says, “can you grab the other cameras from the car?”

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun,” she says, and turns around, and Shane sees the third reason he knows she’s a ghost: the back of her head is a bloody mess.

Nobody ever becomes a ghost the easy way, he supposes.

 

* * *

 

The ghost’s name is Summer, he learns from Ryan’s speech. She was a freshman in college rushing the sorority this house used to belong to, when she had several drinks too many, fell down the stairs, and hit her head.

She was dead before the ambulance even got there.

“According to several eyewitnesses,” Ryan says, “the spirit of Summer Cohen still haunts this house. People have reportedly heard footsteps, seen doors swing open, and even heard felt a phantom presence tap them on the shoulder. It’s said she lingers here to this day, to remind her sorority sisters of their complicity in her tragic passing.”

“Those fake bitches,” Summer scoffs. “It took them twenty whole minutes to even realize I was hurt. They deserved a little haunting.”

Shane looks over at her, then, and she’s got her arms folded over her chest defensively but there’s a look of–grief, on her face, for the life she didn’t get to have.

“She would be–35 now,” Shane says, “right?”

“I think so, yeah,” Ryan says.

“That’s not that much older than me,” Shane says. “That’s just–I can’t really make a joke. That’s just sad.”

“Okay, well,” Summer says, “I appreciate the thought but you don’t have to, like, cry me a river.”

Shane rolls his eyes at her, and then immediately thinks better of it because of the whole thing where he’s on camera.

“Okay,” Ryan says, “let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

Upstairs is far from the creepiest place they’ve ever been in, but it’s still got the eeriness and the thick layer of dust that come with years of disuse.

Ryan pulls out the spirit box, and switches it on. For an obnoxiously long moment, all Shane hears is the irritating blaring intervals of static, but then all of a sudden–

“Oops,” croons the spirit box, “I did it again,” and Ryan screams.

“Did you hear that?!” he shrieks. “Did you?!”

“Congrats,” Shane says drily, “you summoned Britney Spears.”

“I miss Britney,” Summer says wistfully. “How’s she doing? Is she still dating Justin?”

“You don’t understand,” Ryan insists. “The way this works, it’s–constantly changing frequencies multiple times every second, there’s no way a whole phrase like that could come from anywhere but a supernatural source.”

“Seriously,” Summer says, “did she ever put out anything else good? What ever happened to her?”

“Let’s think about this logically,” Shane says. “Which makes more sense: that your ghost box successfully summoned the ghost of the very much alive Britney Spears, or that your _radio_ picked up some  _radio_ signals?”

“But,” Ryan counters, “the frequency is always changing. Are you saying that–that dozens of radio stations all played ‘Oops!...I Did It Again’ at the _exact_ same time?”

“Ryan,” Shane says patiently, “we’re in LA.”

Ryan pauses. “Fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

Shane’s been able to see ghosts ever since he was eight and nearly drowned at the community pool. The lifeguard had given him CPR and he’d been completely fine, but he guesses that he’d stopped breathing just long enough to open his eyes.

It’s certainly been useful so far. Shane has seen and dealt with weeping widows, dismembered Civil War veterans, with tortured prisoners and beheaded nuns and once, memorably, on a family vacation, a phantom sasquatch.

And yet, none of them have been half as annoying as Summer.

They’re heading back downstairs when Shane trips, halfway down the upstairs hallway, and falls into an open linen closet.

Ryan immediately bursts into hysterical laughter, which is fair.

“Smooth move, Madej,” he says, wheezing, and then steps into the closet behind Shane, holding a hand out to help him up.

Shane takes it, which is of course when the door slams shut behind them.

“Oh my God,” Ryan says, and Shane can tell that he’s pale and terrified even in the darkness. “We’re going to die. There’s a ghost in here and it’s going to kill us.”

“There is no ghost,” Shane lies. “It’s an old house, Ryan. I’m sure the, uh, the doorknob is just jammed. We’ll get out of here in no time.”

Shane tries to subtly rattle the doorknob without alarming Ryan. It doesn’t work. The door remains resolutely closed, and Ryan’s panicked breathing practically doubles in speed.

Summer floats through the door, beaming. “You’re welcome,” she says, sing-song and smug. “I got you your seven minutes in heaven!”

Shane desperately wishes he could talk directly to her without coming off as both insane and hypocritical on camera, but alas. All he can do is glare at her furiously and hope for the best.

“I saw you checking his ass out earlier,” Summer says, popping her gum. “I figure, like, someone around here should be getting some, and it can’t exactly be me, so.”

Shane kind of hates her, but that’s fine. She’s an undead phantom. She’s probably used to it.

Ryan leans in closer. Shane can feel his heart pounding in his chest, nervous and too-fast, and–

“I hope you’re fucking happy with yourself,” he mutters under his breath, so quiet he knows only Summer will hear, and then he bends down and kisses Ryan.

Ryan’s mouth is still under his for a long moment, half-open in surprise but unresponsive, and then Ryan gets one hand on Shane’s hip and the other hand on Shane’s shoulder and he’s tilting his face up and kissing back, hot and deep and self assured.

He’s busy pressing Shane back into the closet door, firmly, when the door swings open again and Shane lands on his ass. Again.

This time, Summer’s the one bursting into hysterical laughter. It’s still pretty fair.

 

* * *

 

“What was that, earlier?” Ryan says, blinking at Shane.

“What was what?”

“You know what,” Ryan says, “in the closet. You know.”

“Oh, that,” Shane says, “that’s–well, you seemed really nervous, and I just wanted to get you to calm down.”

Ryan snorts. “Wow, that was a really terrible lie.”

 _Still less stupid than the truth_ , Shane thinks to himself, because well–it is.

“Fine,” he says, “then I–then I kissed you because I wanted to,” and he’s surprised to find that that too, is the truth.

Huh.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready to go?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, “Just–one question: when did Summer die, again?”

“2001, I think,” Ryan says. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Shane says idly, and then pulls his phone out of his back pocket, opens Spotify, and hits play.

The opening riff of _Toxic_ fills the living room, and Ryan frowns at him. “What are you doing?”

Shane shrugs at him, smirking. “Well, your little box upstairs seemed to like Britney, so I thought maybe the dulcet tones of America’s pop princess could coax the ghost out to get one of those random nonsense words you seem to like so much.”

“They’re called EVP, and you know it,” Ryan says. “Also, shut up.”

“ _With the taste of your lips, I’m on a ride,_ ” Britney croons, and hovering next to Ryan, Summer shrieks in delight.

“Oh my God! You _guys_! I love this!” She hugs Ryan, who doesn’t notice except to shiver slightly, and then Shane. It feels like someone’s dumped a Slurpee over his head, but he appreciates the sentiment. “You’re the best! AHHH!”

“Jesus,” Ryan says, fumbling for his audio recorder, “did you hear that, Shane? Was that screaming? Shoot, was this thing on?”

“Nope,” Shane says, “sorry, I don’t hear anything,” and smiles.


End file.
